


Soul Mates (and Other Things Arthur Doesn't Approve of Being)

by peachchild



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/pseuds/peachchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the kind of curse you have to sacrifice something to break. Merlin never saw it as a sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul Mates (and Other Things Arthur Doesn't Approve of Being)

Morgause is rather clever.

Merlin has to admit that at least. Or she would be clever if Merlin didn’t exist. But he does, you see, and as always, he has been severely underestimated. Then again, his skills as a warlock aren’t exactly deserving of the thanks this time; it’s rather Merlin’s selflessness or stupidity. (He hasn’t decided as which exactly this qualifies.) All the same, Merlin’s existence is what saves Arthur’s life. He supposes if he was like any other person, if he hesitated or thought for half a second before he did it, things might be different, but as it is, Arthur is alive and entirely angrier about it than Merlin expected.

“I don’t really see what you’re on about.” He comments as he picks his way through the underbrush behind his prince. “You’re alive, aren’t you? You’re wholly intact. No limbs missing or anything. Why are you so grumpy about it?”

“I am _not_ grumpy.” Arthur tosses a glare over his shoulder. “There are just a thousand other people I would rather this have happened with.”

Merlin presses his lips together, hurries to catch up with him. The path clears with an impatient wave of his hand, and he ignores Arthur’s disapproving glance. “Firstly, I highly doubt you have _a thousand other people_ you would rather be in this position with. And I really don’t see how this changes anything between us. I’m still your servant, and it isn’t as if -” He cuts himself off, startled, when Arthur turns on him, brows drawn over blue eyes, searching. “What?”

“I can _hear you_. He taps his temple, fiercely, and Merlin wonders if he’s hurting himself doing it. “I can hear you in my head, thinking. It’s like having you speaking into both ears at once.”

Merlin pushes his lips out, thoughtfully, eyebrows raised. “I could talk less?” Arthur rolls his eyes and turns away from him, crunching across the forest floor. Merlin jogs to stay at his side. “No, really. I mean, you can hear my thoughts anyway. We could learn to talk telepathically. We wouldn’t have to say a thing to each other.”

He sighs. “Merlin, I don’t like listening to you when you _can_ filter yourself, however poorly you manage it. Why would I want to hear your uncensored thoughts at all hours of the day?”

“You’ll be able to anyway, won’t you?” His servant points out, walking mostly sideways to face him. “Our souls are bound together, Arthur; we might as well make the most of it. I’m sure I could train myself to point certain thoughts in your direction and to otherwise… think quieter. It really can’t be so difficult as you’re making it out to be.”

“Why are you so alright with this?” He turns to him finally, crossing his arms over his chest. “You haven’t shown any sign of being at all distressed?”

His shoulder lifts in a thin shrug. “I’m magic, sire. I’ve seen all sorts of odd things. Our souls being bound together isn’t much of a stretch, really.”

“How do you reckon that?”

“Well, we spend a lot of time together. We look after each other. We’re friends.” He waits, but Arthur doesn’t protest the use of the word. “Besides, if it’s between sharing my soul with you or yours being irreversibly damaged – well, it’s not much of a contest there, is it?”

Arthur watches him for a moment, studies him, and Merlin leaves his mind wide open for him, watching him right back, so he can feel his sincerity. After a moment, he squeezes his shoulder, affectionately, and lets his hand fall. “Thank you. You’ve done a great service for Camelot.”

Merlin scoffs. “How arrogant of you to assume that saving your life is a great service to Camelot.” He starts off toward the city again.

“Hang on!” Arthur protests, following him. “You’re the one always telling me what a great king I’ll become.”

“Yes, well, keep up the prattishness, and who knows what will happen.”

“You’re not much of a servant, Merlin.”

“You remind me every day.”

***

The curse attempted to split Arthur’s soul in two. Merlin heard Morgause’s hissed words, wanted so much to be able to push his prince out of the way, but then it was sliding around him in fiery ropes, and Arthur didn’t so much collapse as fling himself down, shrieking in pain in a way Merlin didn’t know Arthur could.

She was gone after that, vanished into the wind, wounded as only Merlin could wound her, and he was scrambling over to Arthur, unsure, his hands hovering over him as he tried to hush him, tried to calm him, to smooth the lines contorting his face. “Sh, sh. It’s alright. We’ll – I’m – I’ll fix it, I promise.”

“ _Merlin_ ” He gasped out, his back arching, hand curling tight, bruising around Merlin’s arm. “It _hurts_.”

“I know.” He choked back a sob, panic rising in his throat, threatening to suffocate him. “I know. Just – I can fix it. I’ll make it stop.” He didn’t know what he was doing. He’s never had to fight magic as dark as this. He pressed his hands to Arthur’s chest, firmly, and the pressure – or maybe just the touch – was enough to make him go still, wild eyes centering on Merlin’s face, the terror receding a little, and Merlin knew. He gathered Arthur in against him, pressed his lips to his ear. “You’re safe. Just breathe. Open yourself up. I have you, and you’re safe.”

Arthur trembled, muscles wound tight. He fisted his fingers in Merlin’s tunic, pressed his face against his neck, gasped out once, twice, and forced himself relaxed, his breaths deliberately slow, exuding whispers of _I trust you._

It was all Merlin needed really. He closed his eyes, cradled Arthur’s head close, his arm curled around his shoulders, pinning him against himself. “My soul is yours.” He murmured. “Let me in. We’ll share it.” He imagined torn fabric, fraying ends, in deep reds. He bound them up in his mind, hemmed the edges together with gold thread, felt the hum of wholeness, satisfaction, a flush of warmth.

He didn’t notice until his skin had gone cool with a twilight breeze sliding through the trees that Arthur was calm, asleep in his arms, beads of sweat drying on his forehead. Merlin stroked his hair back, breathed in deeply through his nose, and sunk back against a tree, erecting a protection charm around them and letting himself slide off into unconscious, sagged down by the exhaustion such powerful magic brings.

***

It’s been three days, and Merlin still doesn’t understand the irritation Arthur seems to feel toward him – not _seems_ to feel so much as _does_ feel, really, since the emotion winds itself into Merlin, leaves him on-edge, agitated. He snaps at Gaius one too many times and is banished from his chambers for the day and avoids other people as often as he can as to avoid a repeat.

The only person he _can’t_ avoid is equally unpleasant to be around, which works just fine for Merlin. “Will you tell me what’s _wrong_ , for goodness’ sake?”

Arthur sags back into his chair, sulkily, and tosses the bone from his chicken leg onto his plate. “Can’t you just read it?” He taps his temple mockingly.

“You’re angry with me. While I _have_ considered the possibility of invading your privacy in that way to understand what I’ve done so wrong, your unhappiness is keeping me locked out.”

“Well, good. Perhaps it’s useful that you’re so incompetent; I’m _always_ unhappy with you.”

“Is that what this is about?” Merlin feels a flash of anger, then hurt, and Arthur’s drawn brow leads him to believe he feels it. “You’re angry that I can hear your thoughts?”

“It’s more than just _anger_ , Merlin.” He pushes himself to his feet, gestures toward the door. “This is a matter of security, of the safety of my people.”

Merlin takes a step back. “You think – You trust me that little, that I would use what I learn from your thoughts to harm Camelot?”

Arthur huffs out through his nose. “It’s not about _trust_ ; it’s–”

“Of course it’s about trust. This wouldn’t even _matter_ if you trusted me.” Merlin shakes his head, huffing. “You know I have magic, and you know I’ve only ever used it in your aid and Camelot’s, and yet you still look at me as a threat?”

“Perhaps you are!” Arthur shoots back. “Why else would you bind our souls together this way? You knew the effect it would have.”

“I had no idea of the effect, Arthur! All I knew was that you were in pain, and I had to fix it any way I could. You were – you were _crying_ , Arthur. I’ve seen you take arrows and swords and fists and teeth and claws and never so much as cry out, but this time – you were in anguish, and I couldn’t stand beside you and not help you. And–” His voice cracks, his knuckles curl into tight fists. “Arthur, it was your _soul_. She wanted to tear your soul apart. Without that, you would have been nothing more than a shade. How was I supposed to allow that?”

“You tell me.” He has the decency to look ashamed. “You claim to be the most powerful warlock of our time. You tell me why you could only think of this to save me?”

“You aren’t allowed to split hairs, Arthur! How dare you assume this is what I wanted!” Merlin’s jaw clicks shut angrily. “Do you understand what happened, Arthur? My soul is _yours_ now. Do you know the kind of devotion and care and trust I must feel for you in order for it to even be possible? If I had had a moment of doubt, just one single second, it wouldn’t have worked. You would be as good as dead.” He shakes his head, takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for the outburst. Is there anything you need from me, sire?”

Arthur doesn’t meet his eye. “No. That will be all.”

***

They avoid each other easily for a week. Arthur doesn’t appreciate the chambermaid that is sent in Merlin’s place to undress him or draw his bath or bring his meals, with repeated excuses that since it is the winter season, the sick are greater in number and Gaius needs Merlin’s aid in caring for them. He knows it’s a lie, instinctively, because Merlin is gone from his head. The constant rushing of thoughts, generally more solemn than his cheery demeanor lets on, has been silenced, and Arthur feels oddly empty for it.

And if that isn’t terrible enough, the constant ache in his muscles is entirely unwelcome. It subsides sometimes, when he enters his room or passes the door to Gaius’s chambers or the stables, and he hates to admit that it’s because Merlin’s recently been in those places. He’s infuriated by himself, by the fact that not only in his mind, but in his _body_ , he _misses_ his manservant – his warlock – his _friend_.

His blood practically sings when he enters his room, early, from training, and Merlin is there, sweeping out the fireplace. They pause, stare at each other, and the way those full lips part communicates to Arthur in the most beautiful ways that Merlin misses him too. “Where have you been?” is what the prince chooses to blurt out.

Merlin’s face smoothes, and he returns to his work, shrugging. “I have fulfilled my duties, have I not, sire?”

“You have not, indeed. You haven’t attended me at feasts, my baths or in dressing my armor. Those are all your duties as the royal manservant.”

“I’m sorry, sire. Gaius is old and he needed my help to tend to the sick. I would have thought you could get on quite nicely dressing and bathing yourself.”

“Do not patronize me, Merlin.” He crosses the room toward him. “I don’t understand. Why are you avoiding me?”

His face stays schooled into careful blankness. “Avoiding you, sire?”

“Merlin.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. There are so many things he wants to say. “I’m sorry if I came across as callous.” _I miss you._ “I was out of line.” _It hurts to be apart._

Merlin dips his head in acknowledgment. “I appreciate that, sire.” One, two. “I really should finish this.”

Arthur’s face falls, and he doesn’t dare try to hide it, even though he can’t sense anything from him. “Yes, of course.” He says quietly, nodding and stepping away.

***

The ache is perhaps stronger in Merlin than in Arthur, deep-set in his chest and terribly painful, a slow burn like rum. He is quick to shouts and quicker to tears, and Gaius cannot bear it.

“Is it so terrible to patch things up, Merlin?” He ventures to ask one day, while they stand side-by-side at the workbench, mixing salves and draughts for their many patients. “You know Arthur would be more than happy to have you back in his constant service.”

“I know that.” Merlin sighs, capping a bottle of green liquid meant for soothing muscle aches. “But I also know that he doesn’t trust me. He told me so himself. You know how I am around him, Gaius.” His voice dips soft. “You know the kind of effect he has on me. I want to be open with him always, now that we have no secrets between us. I don’t want to be around a man who has no desire to be close to me.”

“But Merlin, your souls are bound. You cannot undo that simply by avoiding his company. One day, you will need to be reconciled.”

“One day.” He concedes. “Hopefully, I won’t be quite so hurt when that day comes.” He gathers the vials into his bag. “I’ll return for the rest after I’ve delivered these.” He slips out of the room, leaving Gaius sighing and shaking his head at his stubbornness.

***

Arthur gasps, flinching away from the sword that’s just grazed his side. He touches his hand to the wound, brings it away with blood on the fingertips of his gloves. It isn’t deep. He’s not worried. He brings his sword up in front of him again. “Very good, Kay.”

Kay, for his turn, looks positively terrified. “I’m sorry, sire.”

“Therefore, I am either becoming less skilled or you are becoming more so. Now, would you pause to apologize to your enemy, or would you take the opportunity to run him through?”

“Sire, you are not my enemy.”

“Truthfully, sire.” Leon steps in, his hand settled lightly on the hilt of his own sword. “We should tend to your wound before we continue with training.”

Arthur glares at him. “You are not to give me direction, Leon. I am perfectly capable of carrying on.”

He bows slightly. “I’m sure you are, but that’s no reason to do so.”

The prince sighs, throws down his sword. Leon has always been his voice of reason. He almost wishes his soul was bound to _him_ instead; at least then he’d have something to show for it. “Alright. Have Gaius sent to my chambers. I will await him.”

He turns to start off the field, paused when he sees Merlin striding toward him, face set in a distinctly unhappy expression: downturned mouth and brow, his shoulders tense. “Sire.” He bows stiffly. “Shall we?”

Arthur stares at him for a moment, and then, as disrespectful as ever, his manservant spins on the ball of his foot and trudges off back toward the castle, so he can’t do anything but follow after him, as if dragged along by an invisible thread.

They enter his room, and Merlin sends a chambermaid for fresh water and towels, along with bandages, before moving toward Arthur, methodically unlatching his armor, removing it piece-by-piece and setting it aside. “I’ll have that shined, shall I?”

“Yes.” He breathes out, overwhelmed by his presence, his closeness; it’s like the first toe into a hot bath after a long day of numbing cold. “How did you know?”

Merlin carefully peels his tunic away from the wound and up over Arthur’s head. “Our souls are bound, remember?” He tosses the tunic down with the armor. “I’ll mend that as well.”

He nods absently, allows Merlin to lead him to his bed, lying down on his side. The chambermaid arrives with the supplies, sets them on the table within Merlin’s reach. He thanks her rather solemnly, and she bows in Arthur’s direction before backing from the room. Arthur sucks in a tight breath, holding it in his throat as Merlin presses the wet cloth to the wound, wiping away the blood slowly oozing from it.

It earns him a sad smile from his servant. “You never cry from the pain.” He reminds him.

Arthur leans his cheek against his arm, watching him. “How did you feel it, if you’ve… severed the tie?”

“I’ve done no such thing.” Merlin murmurs, shaking his head. “I’ve just... built a wall between our minds, as you wished. Still, our bodies are as connected as they were. I felt the wound as soon as it occurred.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I certainly wasn’t in any position to be sliced open, was I?”

“No, I suppose not.” Arthur’s lips quirk up. “I suppose that explains my unusually sore toes or the bumps that inexplicably appear on my head.”

“I’m not so clumsy as all that.”

“Only when you’re weary. Which is why I feel it in the morning, probably stubbing your toe on the end of your bed as you get out of it?” His smile widens when a flush stains Merlin’s cheekbones. “Or leaning into the fireplace to sweep out the ash before lighting my evening fire and hitting your head on the mantel?”

“I didn’t come to dress your wound just so you can mock me. Sit up now, please, sire.”

He does so, pushing himself up on his arm, his eyebrows drawing together. “I miss you.” He blurts out, catching his breath and pressing his lips together to hold it in before he says anything else he’ll regret.

Merlin’s fingers still against his skin for a moment, and then resume their task of winding the bandages slowly around him. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” He rubs his eyes. “I thought I could do without your incessant chatter and general lack of observation of etiquette between master and servant but it’s so _quiet_ without you talking at me, waking me in the morning and pestering me until I go to sleep each night.”

Merlin secures the bandage firmly, hands him the tincture Gaius made him on the spot to help with the pain. “I don’t know how to return to serving you when you don’t trust me, sire.”

Arthur’s face crumples, and he feels a flash of something – remorse, regret – and he doesn’t know if it’s his own or Merlin’s. “I trust you with my life, Merlin.”

“But I am a threat to the kingdom.”

“You aren’t.” Arthur covers his hand, curls his fingers around Merlin’s and squeezes. “I’m – you’re – you’re my friend. You know more about me than anyone.”

“But you don’t trust me.”

“Merlin.” He sighs softly.

He shakes his head, drawing his hand away and standing. “Is that all, sire? I told Gaius I would be at his service today.”

***

Word comes from a far-lying village that a troupe of bandits has come to reign there, demanding food, drink and women for their pleasure. Arthur knows he has no choice but to lead a patrol to break it up, to haul the offenders back to Camelot for punishment; he cannot have his subjects abused in such a way.

They set out at dawn on a day-long journey. By noon, the pain in Arthur’s chest is so intense, blooming like a fire-brand on his skin that he rides with his hand pressed against it, his shoulders curled in.

Leon notices, and he reaches out to his prince, touching his hand to his arm. “Sire? Are you alright?”

He waves him off. “Thank you for your worry, Leon; I’ll be fine.”

The knight nods, leaves off a little to allow Arthur to lead unhindered.

By nightfall, the prince is doubled-over, gasping, and the company decides it’s in his best interest to make camp. They build a fire and arrange Arthur curled onto his side on his bedroll. Leon is the only one willing to approach him, pressing a cool cloth to his head. “Is it fever, my lord?”

“No.” He sucks a breath in between his teeth. “It’s Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Leon shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s no concern of yours. I must learn to fight this, to go on despite the pain.”

He nods, uncomfortable with the idea. “I understand, sire. Rest now. We will start again in the morning.”

Arthur obeys, sliding off into something closer to a faint than sleep.

***

The pain is gone when he wakes. He is terrified to open his eyes, to discover that perhaps he is still asleep. Perhaps the pain is gone only because he is not conscious to feel it. But the sun is shining just so on his face, and he risks a look, finds it slicing through the trees on the side of his face, and he feels _brilliant_. There is no pain at all.

He tries to shift but finds his left arm pinned, and looking over, he finds Merlin curled up at his side, his head tucked in against his chest, his hand curled in Arthur’s tunic, clutching him as if terrified he’ll leave. Arthur knows the feeling.

He shifts, squirming until Merlin’s cheek rests against his arm, and he rests their foreheads together, closing his eyes, breathing out a soft sigh of relief. He’s here. “You’re here.” He whispers, and he wonders for a moment if the knights are awake, if they can hear him, but he doesn’t care. “You’re here.”

“Stating the obvious a bit, aren’t we?” Merlin murmurs, his hand sliding up to rest against his neck, lazily. “It was almost too much for me to get to you. I couldn’t focus my magic.”

Arthur hushes him gently. “We aren’t alone.” He reminds him.

Merlin nods. “It hurt.” He admits. “I just – it hurt.”

Arthur understands. “I have reasons, for being afraid of you – of having you in my mind.”

“Mmm?” Merlin’s already drawing away, not in body, but the thoughts swirling lethargically through Arthur’s head, twining with his own, are receding, vanishing.

Arthur scrambles to follow them, to keep hold of that line, keep it taut and sharp between them. “You gave me… a part of your soul to keep mine intact. I don’t know how to repay that.”

“You don’t have to.” Merlin says quietly, petting absently at the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve never needed compensation.”

“I know. But this is something different than fending off curses or healing wounds. You’ve shown me a kind of loyalty that no one else ever has.”

“Arthur?”

“I need – it frightens me that I need you as much as I do. I can’t explain it to you. I can’t describe the longing, the desperation and despair I’ve felt these past weeks, knowing you were out of my reach. Today – yesterday, I guess – was the worst it’s ever been, and I know you felt that, but…” He shakes his head. “I can’t stand to – I love you.” The words hurl out of him before he can stop them, and then he’s reeling back, settling deep in the back of his mind.

“No.” Merlin surges after him, inhabiting his head, filling him up to a point that he gasps in surprise, humming with the power and fury of the onslaught, the inescapable sensation of _Merlin_ in and around him. “No, you can’t hide after saying that.” He touches his fingertips to Arthur’s lips, pets them lightly, before dipping in to press their lips together. “No hesitation.” He breathes out with a nod. “I had no second thoughts about being your soul mate.”

The term makes Arthur’s heart lurch, and he knows Merlin feels it, can read it in the goofy grin that suddenly brightens his face. “Soul mates.” He repeats, pleased, and kisses him again.

***

At first, love-making is nothing short of terrifying. The first time Merlin goes down on him, all lips and spit and tongue and teeth, awkward and endearing, Arthur is so overwhelmed, wound tight with love and lust and desperation, Merlin’s thoughts and desire and _adoration_ thrumming through him, that he comes within moments, spilling into his lover’s mouth so that he chokes, swallows some and wipes the rest from his lips and chin with the side of his hand.

Arthur, flushed with embarrassment and dazed by his orgasm, draws him up toward him to kiss at his swollen mouth, murmuring apologies, and Merlin smiles, cups his face and kisses him back, shaking his head and murmuring soothing words.

The first time they try to make love is a disaster altogether. When he pushes into Merlin, the sensation – his pleasure mixed with the stinging burn of Merlin’s pain – makes him gasp and tremble, and Merlin is wound tight, whimpering, begging him to _stop, stop, please, wait_ and he does, pulling out and just lying there, resting against him, brushing his lips against his face while Merlin holds onto him, shaking.

He rests his cheek against Arthur’s temple, petting his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be.” He murmurs, presses his lips to his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I know. I’m not sorry about that. I mean, I am, but not – that’s not why I was apologizing.” He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and he goes still, relaxed, beneath him. “I love you. And I wish I had just told you that.”

Arthur laughs. “Sounds like what I should be saying.”

“You are. Those were your words.” Merlin tugs at his hair, teasing. “I can feel them.”

“They’re true.” He mouths at his jaw, petting his thumb along his collarbone. “I’m an idiot.”

Merlin laughs, rolls them over, and after a few long minutes of wrestling, kissing and panting and touching and whimpering, as Arthur sucks a bruise on his shoulder, he gasps out, “About time you admitted it.”


End file.
